


mrs. giry

by byronicmaiden



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, F/F, Teacher-Student Relationship, well technically sugar mommy but that wasn't a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-04 08:33:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10987308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byronicmaiden/pseuds/byronicmaiden
Summary: Christine's ballet teacher takes an interest in her.





	mrs. giry

The gifts started on Thursday.

Maybe twenty dollars isn't exactly a gift, but it's not something you'd expect to get from your ballet teacher, who also happened to be your best friends mother.

Christine liked Mrs. Giry. She really did; she was different from Sorelli's mom, or Raoul's mom, she wasn't warm or doting, but she was tough and she was passionate and she loved Meg with all her heart. She was what Christine thought of when someone said mom. She was also the best ballet teacher in town.

"Christine Daaé," Her voice, like diamonds, cut through the room. "Fix your posture."

Christine raised her chin, reached her arm out further, trying to make herself ruler-straight.

Mrs. Giry sighed. Her heels, black ones, some designer brand that cost more than Christine's house, clicked across the shiny floor.

She put one hand on Christine's stomach and the other on her back and pushed, those bony hands shaping Christine into something perfect, Michelangelo carving David from a hunk of stone.

Christine's body jerked and suddenly she was completely upright, completely straight, like an arrow. Perfect.

Her hands rested on Christine's waist, holding her in position. She was inches from Christine, her breath hot on her neck.

"Better, Miss Daaé?"

The two both faced the wall-length mirror, their eyes meeting in the glass.

Christine nodded a tiny nod. "Yes, Mrs. Giry."

Mrs. Giry smiled, proud, then pulled away as quickly as she came. "Good."

The rest of the lesson, girls bumped and stumbled and Mrs. Giry paid them hardly any attention, except the occasion eye roll or reprimand. She only watched Christine, only helped Christine.

The lesson concluded and the girls filed out, on their way to examine all their new bruises and hang out in parking lots, eating junk food Mrs. Giry wouldn't approve of, all except Meg and Christine.

"Miss Daaé, stay after class, please. I need to speak with you. Meg, wait in the car."

Meg nodded, slung her bag over her shoulder and squeezed Christine's hand before leaving.

"Is something wrong?"

Mrs. Giry shook her head. "No. Nothing. You're improving quite a bit, Miss Daaé."

Christine smiled, blushed under her teachers compliments. "You've helped."

Mrs. Giry smiled and reached into her coat pocket, pulled out something folded. She took Christine's hand and placed it in her palm.

"What is this?"

"A gift. For doing so well."

Christine unfolded her gift and held up a twenty dollar bill.

"What's it for?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Whatever you want. That's not my business. Now, I have to go, Meg is waiting for me. Goodnight, Christine."

Mrs. Giry breezed past her, leaving Christine with her twenty dollars and confused expression.

* * *

A burning cigarette drooped between Christine's fingers, puffs of smoke slipping into the air. She sat, lazily sprawled, in the Mini Mart parking lot, the pavement still hot from the summer day that slipped below the skyline. The sky was an electric blue, a blue so sharp it made everything beneath it slightly blue, too.

Christine pulled her legs to her chest and started picking at her ripped tights, sliding her fingers in and out of a large hole over her knee, _pump, pump, pump._

A shiny black Mercedes, looking like a bat folded in on itself in the low lighting, pulled up in front of her. The window slowly churned down. Mrs. Giry.

"Cigarettes kill, you know."

Christine smashed the tip of the cigarette into the pavement, extinguishing it. Was this what it felt like to be caught doing something wrong by your mother? 

"I know. Sorry."

Mrs. Giry pulled down her sunglasses (of course she wore them at night), her dark eyes sparkling like pots of ink. Dark eyes, dark hair, dark car, everything of hers so dark, like a widow. She wasn't, though, Meg had told her about her father, Mrs. Giry's husband, who left when Meg was five. 

"Come on. I'll give you a ride."

Christine had planned on staying out, meeting up with Meg and whatever boys and booze she'd stolen that week, drinking cheap beer and dancing on tables, but she doubted Meg would even notice she was gone.

She thought back to Mrs. Giry's hands on her waist, posing her like a doll.

"Yeah, alright, thanks."

Christine smiled, stood, and Mrs. Giry smiled back. Her lips were a matte purple-red, the kind of lipstick you don't buy in drugstores. Her makeup was always done so perfectly, heavy black eyeshadow and ivory foundation and sculpted brows, makeup that would look whorish on anyone else. But she just looked regal.

The inside of the car was all black too, leather seats cold against Christine's legs through her tights.

"Buckle your seatbelt."

Christine did as she was told and Mrs. Giry pulled out of the lot.

The car ride was mostly silent, no radio, no small talk. Christine pulled her legs underneath her and leaned her head on the window.

"Those are new shoes," Mrs. Giry eyed Christine's shiny pastel-purple combat boots. "Did you buy those with your gift?"

Christine looked at her shoes, then at Mrs. Giry, who's eyes were focused on the road.

"Oh, uh, yeah. I never really said thanks for that."

"No need to. I didn't do it for thanks."

"I know," Christine shifted so her body was aimed towards Mrs. Giry. "But still. It was really nice. I've been saving up for these for months, I just needed the twenty more. You really helped out."

"You had to pay for them yourself?"

"Oh, yeah, but only half. It's fine, trust me. More than fine, honestly."

Mrs. Giry dragged her nails, long and red, across the leather steering wheel covering. "No, it's not. I'll pay for the entirety next time."

She pulled the car into Christine's driveway. Christine saw her father through the window, drying dishes.

"Next time?"

"Yes. I'm taking you shopping on Saturday. I'll pick you up at twelve."

It wasn't optional, there was no question mark at the end of that sentence.

"Alright. Sure."

Christine blinked. Why did she say that?

Mrs. Giry leaned across Christine to open the door, her heavy perfume mingling with Christine's flowery one. 

* * *

Mrs. Giry kept her promise.

On Saturday, at exactly twelve o'clock, that sleek Mercedes pulled into Christine's cul-de-sac, standing out against the bright houses.

Christine studied herself in the mirror. Hairspray coated curls, plump face, crop top and shorts.

Mrs. Giry beeped her horn. Christine grabbed a tube of cotton candy lipgloss, swiped it on, and grabbed her purse.

Her father was sitting on the sofa, a magazine in his hand.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going shopping with Meg. Be back soon. Love you." She leaned down and kissed his cheek, leaving a sticky lip print.

Mrs. Giry was in all black again, a sharp pencil skirted dress and sweater. Her hair was pinned back in a bun.

Inside the car was cold, the air condition whirring, blowing into Christine's face. Two paper coffee cups sat in the cupholders, plum lipstick on the one next to Mrs. Giry.

"I wasn't sure how you take your coffee. I'm sorry if you don't like it."

"I've never had coffee." Christine stared at the cup on her side.

"Oh," Mrs. Giry began pulling out of the driveway. "Never mind then. You don't have to drink it."

"No, it's fine," Christine picked up the cup. "My dad doesn't let me drink it, but I've always wanted to try it."

She took a sip and scrunched her nose. It was bitter and heavy and dark and made her taste buds recoil.

Mrs. Giry said nothing, just smiled a tiny bit.

This ride was even quieter than the first one. Neither said anything else the rest of the way.

The stores Mrs. Giry shopped in were alien to Christine. Grown-up stores full of pencil skirts and designer purses.

Christine walked at Mrs. Giry's side and wandered if this was what shopping with your mother felt like.

Mrs. Giry took her into one of those fancy stores, drifted off to the side while Christine let herself be enamored by the beautiful dresses and glossy shoes.

She clutched the hanger of a cream dress with pink lace tightly.

"It's very lovely. Would you like to try it on?" Mrs. Giry ran a hand down the front of the dress, pinching the material between two fingers. Christine nodded.

The dress fit perfectly, the fabric soft on her skin, fitted to her body like it was made for her. She looked in the mirror and hardly recognized herself. Her torn tights and jean shorts were gone, the only markings of a teen girl left were pink clips dangling from her hair. She pulled them out like bird feathers and dropped them into her purse.

Mrs. Giry smiled when Christine exited the dressing room, twirling in her dress.

Christine stood in front of the triple mirror, admiring herself from all angles. Mrs. Giry stood behind her, like that day in class.

"Beautiful. You look so grownup."

She played with a curl of Christine's hair, pushing it to the front. She wrapped her arms around her and smoothed down the front of the dress.

"I'll pay. Wait here."

* * *

Christine smiled at the cream colored bag and white tissue paper that held her dress. It sat, seat belt across it, in the back seat. Her head was resting on the window, eyes closed, smiling.

She felt the car come to a stop and heard the engine shut off, but kept her eyes shut. Her body was tired from walking the entire length of the mall at least twice. She didn't want to drag her tired limbs out of the cool car and into the hot, thick summer evening.

She heard a car door open and shut and open again. She felt Mrs. Giry's hand brush through her hair again. She shook her, gently.

"Christine. Wake up."

Christine didn't want to wake up. She wished Mrs. Giry would take her in her long arms, carry her to her room like a child.

Christine stirred and climbed from the car. Her legs ached, she felt dizzy, like she was underwater.

Mrs. Giry handed her the bag and put her hand on the small of her back. Christine smiled and walked to her door.

"Christine?" Mrs. Giry called out, Christine halfway in the door.

"Yeah?"

"Are you still planning on staying over on Friday? After lessons, with Meg?"

Christine nodded. "Yeah. Why?"

Mrs. Giry smiled and popped open her car door. "Just making sure."

* * *

Meg lay to Christine's side, arm resting on her chest, blonde curls strewn on the pillows.

Christine lay on her back, hands folded over her stomach, staring at the dark ceiling. The muted TV offered little light. Meg's room was hot, the windows open, the fan spinning lazily above them. 

Slowly, Christine lifted Meg's arm and slid out of the bed. Meg rolled over, face shoved into the mattress.

Christine pulled on a sheer pink dressing gown- Meg's- and crept out of the room, silently shutting the door behind her.

Meg's house, an old Victorian, was a bit like a maze to Christine. It was an odd juxtaposition of modern and vintage, old creaky furniture mixed with brand new TVs.

She wandered down a long hallway, her gown billowing around her legs, Gothic heroine style.

Mrs. Giry was resting on an old, red velvet couch in the living room. The wide-screen TV was off, the only light was an equally old lamp. She held a book in her lap, glasses resting on the bride of her nose.

Christine walked into the kitchen, trying to be silent. She took a glass from the cabinet but didn't open the fridge, didn't reach for the pitcher of maybe-spiked lemonade Meg made.

"You should be asleep."

Mrs. Giry wore a silk nightgown and robe the color of a bruise. Her long black hair was loose down her back. Christine had never seen her with her hair down before.

"It's too hot. I needed something to cool down."

"Your glass is empty."

She twisted her mouth into an awkward, lopsided smile. "Right."

Mrs. Giry took the glass and began shuffling through a cabinet. Christine hoisted herself onto the countertop, swinging her legs.

Mrs. Giry pulled out a bottle of wine and poured it into Christine's glass, red and thick.

"I'm too young for that."

Mrs. Giry placed the glass into her hand.

"I think you're plenty old enough."

Christine thought back to Mrs. Giry giving Christine her first coffee.

She took the glass and sipped the wine. It was stinging and heavy and stuck to her throat like a mouthful of perfume.

"Do you like it, Christine?"

She cleared her throat.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's good. I've never had wine before." She brushed her hair behind her ear. "I feel dizzy. Is that normal?"

"I suppose. Usually it takes a bit longer. But it is your first time."

Mrs. Giry trailed her fingers down Christine's cheek. Ivory on hot rosy porcelain.

"You're blushing. Your cheeks are so warm."

Christine chewed her bottom lip and drank her bloody wine. While her glass was tipped up, Mrs. Giry took the stem and pulled the glass from her, sitting it onto the countertop. Perfumey wine dripped past her lip and down her chin, a droplet splashing onto the robe.

Mrs. Giry wiped the wine from Christine's mouth with her thumb. Her fingers lingered. She rubbed a tiny circle over Christine's lower lip, and hesitantly slid her thumb into her mouth. Christine's breathing quickened.

She pulled the ties to Christine's borrowed robe, shoved it off her shoulders. It pooled around her in a puddle of pink sheer.

Christine felt naked in nothing but a short, thin nightgown. Mrs. Giry put her hands on her waist, leaned down, kissed at her stomach. She lifted the hem of her nightgown and slid a hand up her legs. Her fingers brushed Christine's lacy panties. Christine gasped.

Mrs. Giry ran her hands over Christine's body. She slid a hand down the front of Christine's panties, fingers sliding inside of her, _pump, pump, pump._

Christine wailed, grabbing Mrs. Giry by the shoulders. Mrs. Giry shushed her, putting a finger to her lips.

"You wouldn't want to wake Meg, would you?"

Christine let Mrs. Giry slip a finger back into her mouth, tongue sliding across it.

Meg had downed two beers and collapsed on her big pink bed hours earlier. She wasn't waking up anytime soon.

Christine leaked between her legs like overripe fruit. Her spine arched, her head smacking against the cabinet behind her, _pump! pump! pump!_

She shut her eyes and felt it, what she felt at ballet lessons when Mrs. Giry straightened her back, what she felt when she twirled in that dress Mrs. Giry bought her. Perfect.


End file.
